“My parents were furious. Caleb and I weren’t together anymore. I was 18 and pregnant, and then he died.”
She pressed both hands against her face.
“I didn’t know what to do.”
I wanted to be angry.
Part of me was furious.
Three years.
Three birthdays.
Three Christmases.
Three years of grieving a son while his child lived somewhere across town.
“Why didn’t you come to me?”
Sadie looked up.
“Because I thought you’d hate me.”
“Why would I hate you?”
“Because Caleb and I ended badly.”
I shook my head.
“That had nothing to do with me.”
“It felt like it did then.”
She looked toward the kitchen.
“My parents told me not to contact you. They said you had suffered enough.”
I let out a broken laugh.
“Suffered enough?”
“I know.”
“No, Sadie. You don’t know.”
She flinched.
I hated that I had hurt her.
But I couldn’t stop.
“Do you understand how many Sundays I’ve sat beside my son’s grave wishing I had one more piece of him?”
Tears slid down her cheeks.
“Yes.”
“While his son was here?”
“I almost called you a hundred times.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
She looked toward the hallway again.
“Because every month I waited made it harder.”
That answer hurt because I understood it.
Grief does that.
One impossible day becomes a week.
Then a month.
Then years.
I sat across from her.
My anger hadn’t disappeared.
But something else had entered the room.
Wonder.
“Does Beau know about Caleb?”
Sadie nodded.
“I tell him about his dad.”
She reached for her phone.
“I have pictures.”
My throat tightened.
“Pictures?”
“Of Caleb. Of us. Some from school.”
She opened a folder and handed me the phone.
There was Caleb at 18, grinning into the camera.
There was Sadie beside him.
Then Beau.
Same grin.
Same crooked eyebrow.
I covered my mouth.
“Oh, Caleb.”
Sadie began crying again.
“I’m sorry.”
I handed the phone back.
“How does Jasper fit into this?”
For the first time she almost smiled.
“Jasper was Caleb’s.”
I blinked.
“What?”
